


youth, ever fading youth

by coffeecold



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Drinking, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, M/M, Mentions of Menstruation, Parties, Trans Character, Trans Issues, Trans Jughead Jones, Trans Male Character, actually not really, ish, its a trans jughead jones fic okay, its gay ok, jug is canon ace, meet cute, meet ugly kinda, nonbinary jughead jones, not graphic just alluded to, queer, southside serpents, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecold/pseuds/coffeecold
Summary: Jughead Jones has been Jughead Jones, or some similar variation on the name, for as long as they can remember knowing how to talk.-the trans jughead fic that literally nobody asked for but cameron got really excited about





	youth, ever fading youth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShyAudacity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyAudacity/gifts).



> I've literally never written Riverdale ever.
> 
> Jughead uses they/them pronouns.
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

Jughead Jones has been Jughead Jones, or some similar variation on the name, for as long as they can remember knowing how to talk.

At seven, they are JJ. Elementary school for JJ seems to be a constant loop of days where the teacher would say “Florence” on roll call, and they’d say “JJ, Ma’am,” and expect the mistake to be corrected. The teachers always seem to ask “JJ? How does JJ come from Florence?” and JJ just says “It came from my head, Ma’am.”  
And that has to be an acceptable answer. For a seven year old, there isn’t another one. Because when you’re seven, if something is in your head then it has to be real. Everything you’ve imagined or dreamed up in your life up to that point is met with adults saying “really? Is that right? What happened to you after that?” even if it’s just you in your pajamas with sleepy eyes and tousled curls, talking about hearing Father Christmas and the reindeer on the roof of the trailer in the night, or telling your Mom and Dad that you and your sister fought a dragon when they sent you out to play. 

You win the fight, of course. You and your sister always slay the dragons when you’re together.

When eleven rolls around, the adults stop believing so much in the stories and spells you dream up. Jay is in middle school and their mom doesn’t drive them to the gates any more. Mom takes Jellybean to elementary and leaves them to take the bus with the bigger kids. The older kids think it’s fun to snatch hats and toss them around, and it becomes routine for Jay to not unwrap the granola bar Mom leaves them on the counter until they’re safely sitting down, because it ends up on the ground in the aisle more than once, trodden into the mud-stains and footprints and crumbled into oaty dust. The hat ends up back on Jay’s head by the end of the ride most days, and if it doesn’t, it’s in the lost property box by the end of the day and they get a lecture from the receptionist about taking care of their belongings.  
“Your parents don’t buy you things for you to lose them,” she says, and doesn’t pay attention when Jay says that the kids on the bus take it and play catch every morning. “You should be careful about the tales you tell on others, Florence. Making up stories won’t do you any good as you get older. It’s time to leave the fairy tales to the younger ones.”

Jay’s sister is still one of the younger ones, and at night, they hide under the blanket together with a torch and a big hardback book of stories about frogs and peas and princesses, and Jay reads in one of Jellybean’s ears and covers the other with a small hand, nails bitten almost down to the quick. Jellybean’s silky dark hair is soft beneath their touch, not yet curling like Jay’s does. Jay wonders whether, if they’d stayed young forever, they wouldn’t have had to do this. Because outside the safety of the blanket cocoon, Dad is drunk and Mom is crying, “get out, get away from me and my kids,” and Dad spits back with “you get out”, except laden with cuss words that kids aren’t allowed to say, and Mom says “maybe I will, FP, maybe I will.”

Jughead is almost fourteen when the sex ed classes come true, the ones where the teachers split the class up, “boys on the left line, girls on the right” and Jughead almost hesitated before following the girls’ line, because they always got grouped with them and their long hair and glossy lips and eyelashes painted in black gunk from pink and green tubes that only flakes off when you rub your eyes, even though it makes them itch and then you look like you’ve been crying. Jughead wants to cry at the stains they don’t know how to get out, at the pain clawing low in their stomach, at the apparent confirmation that they’ve been one of those girls all along. Because by now, by nearly fourteen, they know they don’t want to be, they’ve never been, despite the name on all the roll calls and the ugly, defiant F on official papers and test results where something else should be. They almost shout out into the small trailer for Mom, but then, Mom isn’t here. Mom is gone, and so is Jellybean. This is Jughead and Dad, and Dad isn’t here right now. Dad’s hanging out in the bar with the other guys with snake tattoos and motorcycles, so Jughead may just be on their own.

They’re still on their own at one in the morning, sitting in the shower tray, but the water ran cold a while ago so they turned it off and stayed sitting there in their wet clothes, shaking, not from the cold or the pain but with fear, with silent tears because all the sobbing seems to have faded away. Perhaps the noise has trickled down the drain with the icy water, and perhaps if they could hold a hand steady, they’d be able to peel off their skin and send it away with all the other parts they didn’t need. Maybe then everyone would see Jughead, as the person they see themself, not what someone’s always trying to tell them they are. The thought makes it tempting to break that skin apart, to see what it’s hiding underneath. To see if things can really get any worse than this.

Jug is seventeen and skinnier than ever, wears a snake-embroidered jacket and endless faded, ancient bracelets, from festivals in days gone by, bought on eBay or found in FP’s closet when they tried to clean it out with him, adorning their arms. The bracelets are good at hiding their skin when the jacket doesn’t, and if they can hide their skin from themself, they can almost believe it isn’t there at all. The leather jacket and the hat they still wear, jaw-length curls dyed inkier than ever and mostly shoved up inside it, make a sort of second skin, and if they feel like the snake, due to shed any moment, at least other people don’t know they feel that way. Other people see the snake, see danger and venom and most of them stay away. It feels good, to feel like they’re making an impact, but by god, in a crowded room that falls silent when you first walk in, before everyone picks up their conversation in groups and pairs again, it feels lonelier than they’ve perhaps ever been. 

When Jug is seventeen, they meet Archie at a basement party (Kevin insists it’s not a party, it’s just a get together that just so happens to coincide with the fact that it’s Christmas soon), and Archie has chocolate eyes and cinnamon hair and doesn't say "Jug? Weird name for a girl. Weird name in general." Instead, he says, "Jug? Like... Awesome. That's totally cool. Wanna sit?" And Jug does. Archie’s clutching a beer bottle like his life depends on it, and his face reads a mix of admiration and mild horror when Jug offers him the shitty vodka they’re drinking neat from the bottle. The rejection doesn’t phase them - they just take another gulp, barely a shudder, and jam it between their thigh and the couch cushion as they settle in to talk to Archie. Archie Andrews, who likes dogs and plays guitar and apparently didn’t learn to drink at his dad’s knee like Jug did, because after a couple of bottles his eyes have become wide and remind Jug of coffee the way they drink it, black and sweet. And Archie is sweet, even when the alcohol hits and he gets fixated on the slowly blinking lights on the Christmas tree. He’s so entranced that when he gets up for water he trips.  
Jug catches him automatically even through their tipsy haze, pulls him close so he can right his dizzy head, and Archie’s hands somehow find the edges of the binder holding their chest flat and in place, and he feels, and the change in his face means he knows, fuck, he knows, and that’s nearly too much for Jug to bear. They push him away into the hands of someone else, someone equally drunk, mumbling something about a smoke, and their hood is over their head before they’ve even made it out into the night.

They’re not sure what happens between that moment and the next one they know, when Kevin is outside, picking them up from the snowy ground - when did it start snowing? It’s still snowing - and taking the cigarette they’re smoking away. The ground around them is littered with butts, and they mumble out an apology with near-frozen lips, not knowing how long they’ve been out there, not knowing how much they’ve smoked or how they still aren’t sober from the bitter chill to the air. Blacking out is scary, but a memory blackout when you’ve been conscious all along is even more so. Kevin shushes them, says “shut up, Jug” and “it’s okay, everyone’s gone home” and “you’re gonna be okay, sleep here” but Kevin neglects to mention that, inside, Archie is passed out asleep on the very couch they’d talked the evening away on.

Jug can’t sleep in a binder. You’re not supposed to, it’s dangerous, it restricts your breathing and can crush your ribs if you wear it too long. But they’ll be damned if they’re telling Kevin the thing even exists, as he’s coaxing them onto the admittedly inviting warmth of the other couch, near the fireplace where the last embers are still giving off a little heat, and wrapping a soft blanket around their shaking shoulders. They’re too tired, too cold, too drunk to fight this, to fight the wave of exhaustion washing over them. It feels like the warmth and the threat of sleep is a tsunami, and Jug is paralysed on the sand of the beach where the water is going to fall. To drown them.

When they wake up, it sure as hell feels like drowning. The blanket is over their face and their head is spinning and they can’t fucking breathe, and they sit up coughing and gasping for air and somewhere along the lines the coughing brings tears to their eyes and then, of course, of course they’re crying too. Painful, choking crying, the kind that sounds like you can’t get enough air into your lungs because they can’t, it’s too tight, it hurts. It’d be humiliating to die like this.  
But then there’s someone there, a hand on their shoulder, pulling the suffocating blanket away, talking in a voice Jug can’t quite place. “Easy, Jug. Shh, you’re gonna be alright. Breathe in, slowly.”  
They’re panicking, coughing. “I can’t!”  
“You can. I know you can. I got you.”  
Through the fear, the voice gets in, centres itself in Jug’s terrified mind and sits there. I got you. They don’t remember ever having anyone say that before. It’s always been them, saying that to a scared kid sister or a heartbroken Kevin or a wasted father, carrying him home. The tears dry without any further input from them, and they finally muster up the control to open their eyes. Then, of course, they nearly bolt again.

Archie.

His hand tightens on their shoulder, the other curling in their hair - the hat is gone, again, they don’t remember whether they had it when they fell asleep or not. “Steady,” Archie murmurs. “Breathe. You’re gonna be okay.” Jug takes a shaky breath in, and the pain is sharp, and their hand has to press against their ribs to try and will it away. “I know,” Archie adds in a whisper, thumb brushing the edge of the binder where it sits on Jug’s shoulder/ If they hadn’t already been feeling like they were about to pass out, they’d be feeling it now anyway. “I know. You gotta get it off… Will you trust me?” They don’t have any choice but to do that now, so a shaky nod is all the reply he gets.  
And Archie gets the binder off, taking Jug’s loose black tee with it, instinctively covering their exposed skin with the blanket, but being sure to keep it away from their face. Jug inhales deeply, and it rattles and aches, but they can worry about that later. For now, their gaze is on Archie, all the panic revolves around Archie and whatever the hell just happened as they try their best to get the air back into their lungs. A couple more coughs, and Jug feels like they might be able to say something. What comes out is “don’t you say a fucking word to anyone”, and they think that maybe a thank you or an apology for waking Archie up with their drowning in air would have been more appropriate, but the words are hanging in the air now and there’s nothing they can do about them. They cough again, and Archie’s hand is once again there, now holding them steady through the blanket, making sure the shaking doesn’t knock Jug over, or at least that’s what it seems like. They’re breathing better when they say “I’m sorry.”

“You’re what?” Archie seems genuinely surprised at the words. “Jug… god, no. You don’t have to be sorry… I get it. It’s okay, so long as you’re okay.” He squeezes their shoulder in a way that’s surprisingly comforting. “Just keep breathing a little longer. I don’t wanna get blamed for you being dead when it’s actually morning.”  
“Time is it?” It feels like Jug’s been asleep for days.  
“‘Bout five, five thirty.”  
“I woke you… I’m sorry.”  
That gets an eye roll from Archie. “Told you, you don’t have to say that. Just be okay. I know you will be, but try to be okay soon, so I can stop freaking out… Here. I’ll turn away… if you want me to.” He’s holding out Jug’s tee, and they take it, waiting until his back is turned before pulling it on, then deciding to stay wrapped in the blanket anyway. It’s thicker, more covering, hides them just a little more. Whispering “ready” gets an “okay” in an equally quiet reply, and Archie comes back. He looks down at the couch space beside Jug and waits for a nod, like permission, before he sits. And then sits closer. 

Jug closes the gap.

They’re quiet for a while, silence broken only by Jug’s still rasping breathing. They’ll deal with it, or it’ll deal with itself, in time. For now, it’s the last thing on their mind. “You said you knew,” they finally tell Archie quietly. “What did you mean? What do you know about me?”  
“Probably more than you expect,” Archie replies, running a hand through his hair. Somehow, the arm ends up around Jug’s shoulders instead of back down by his side. They don’t mind as much as they probably should. “I know what a binder does. And everyone calls you ‘they’, not ‘he’ or ‘she’. It’s more obvious if you know what the puzzle pieces mean.”  
Jug snorts, but it turns into a cough. “You’re being mysterious. Nobody told you that’s my job?”  
“Nope. I think you say enough with your attitude. Thinking you’re unique.” A pause. Archie clears his throat, and then sighs, and then his head drops sideways to rest against Jug’s, which has at some point fallen to the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re not the only one.”

The words hang in the room like cigarette smoke, which Jug has just realised is probably clinging to their hair and skin and jeans. It must be pretty gross, but Archie’s body is curled up towards them, open, inviting and warm in a hoodie maybe three sizes too big, and he doesn’t seem to want to move away. Jug watches his face, the long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Wide brown eyes, a smudge of what could be makeup left on the corners of each eyelid. His lips look chapped, yet somehow still soft, and his cheekbones are strong and up this close, Jug can see that they’re peppered with freckles. It dawns on them, lights up the realisation like the sun casts gold over the rooftops as it rises. 

“You too?” 

Archie nods, closes his eyes, bites his lip and grits his teeth. Jug knows that look. It’s a look of fighting back tears.

“S’okay, Archie. We’re gonna be okay. That’s what you told me,” they murmur. “If I am, you’re gonna be too.” Archie curls up more, and then he moves and buries his face in the crook of Jug’s neck.  
Jug brings a hand around to stroke at his hair. It’s sticky and stiff with day-old gel, but the residue brushes away with fingertips, and it’s soft underneath. “Gonna be okay,” Jug repeats, in their rasped whisper. Archie hums almost inaudibly in response. 

They must fall asleep again, because when they wake up, all the lights are on and there’s an unexpected touch on their cheek. Their eyes open to Archie’s, hazel now it’s brighter, and close again against the sudden onslaught of a headache. Archie laughs, makes a sympathetic noise, and cups Jug’s cheek so he can kiss the other one. His lips don’t really feel all that chapped once they’re on skin, they realise with a faint smile. 

Archie leans in once again and whispers, close to their ear. “Kevin’s making coffee upstairs. Said we could have some. Come with me… S’gonna be okay, Juggie.”


End file.
